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  1. Threshing Eve had arrived in Elmsford. The last of the wheat was finally stocked away in the town stores, and most of the farmers felt a comforting, if not entirely not comfortable, weight in their purses. Elmsford wasn’t exactly bustling most of the year, but Threshing Eve had a way of pulling folks into town, even the farmers from the the east bank of the Rhill. In the corner of Elmsford’s only inn, a Storyseller sat in waiting. His once-red cloak was road-worn to a brown, and his soft boots looked in need of a cobbler’s love. Times were tight, but Threshing Eve offered the promise of a few extra coins, or at least rounds of drinks and a warm meal. As the farmers and townsfolk wandered into the inn in twos and threes, he twirled his talefeather deftly in his left hand. He glanced up with a sudden sparkle in his chestnut eyes, and began to speak, seemingly to no one in particular, but with a strong voice audible from across the room. “You all heard the one of the Wickersneak? Aye, yes, that’s an old one, worn thin like a cheap halfpenny. Let’s see, I caught wind of a piece of a tale down near Higginsford. But that one’s still half-baked at best. Maybe with seasoning and another sprinkle of rumors, it'll be ready in a fortnight or so.” The Storyseller leaned back in his creaky oak chair and looked out the window, his eyes momentarily lost in thought. “Ah, I think I have a tale for you all. Mayhap you’ve heard it, as it’s an old one, but mayhap not. Let’s wait a spell and when the light dims it’ll be ripe for a-tellin. Maybe some more folk will come in and fancy a listen. Now, I will say, a tale such as this is liable to leave a fellow a bit parched, I’m just sayin’.” The Storyseller drained his ale, wiped his mouth with a grimy sleeve, and looked around expectantly. “Do you all know how this inn got its name?” Bill Sunderland chimed in, “Aye, Kamrin’s Papa’s Papa’s named it. Old Man Khanas fashioned the sign, and it’s held up mighty fine, despite being a bit worn. I heard they brought the board all the way down the Rhill from up past Ledford.” The Storyseller chuckled mirthlessly as he eyed his now-empty wooden mug, “Well with a story as fine as that, perhaps I should hang up my travel sack and pass my talefeather off to you lad. No, not the story of the naming. What I’ve got for you lot is the story behind the naming. I tell you what, once folks have a chance to knock some of the dust off their boots and whet their appetite for a proper tale, gather round and hear of the Sapphire Stag.” (OOC): Come join in for a little narrative-driven adventure. I'll post once per day, in the evening (Pacific Time). Please keep your posts in-character, add (OOC) if you need to. It'll just be a fun little one-off tale, and we'll see where the adventure takes us. I haven't run an forum post RPG before, so it'll be a new experience for me as well. Now let's see who else might be in the Sapphire Stag on this Threshing Eve in a small nowhere town along the bank of the Rhill...
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